JUNE.

June 1.—­We took leave of our friends at Rokeby after breakfast, and pursued our well-known path over Stanmore to Brough, Appleby, Penrith, and Carlisle.  As I have this road by heart, I have little amusement save the melancholy task of recalling the sensations with which I have traced it in former times, all of which refer to decay of animal strength, and abatement if not of mental powers, at least of mental energy.  The non est tanti grows fast at my time of life.  We reached Carlisle at seven o’clock, and were housed for the night.  My books being exhausted, I lighted on an odd volume of the Gentleman’s Magazine, a work in which, as in a pawnbroker’s shop, much of real curiosity and value are stowed away and concealed amid the frippery and trumpery of those reverend old gentlewomen who were the regular correspondents of the work.

June 2.—­We intended to walk to the Castle, but were baffled by rainy weather.  I was obliged to wait for a certificate from the parish register—­Hei mihi!!  I cannot have it till ten o’clock, or rather, as it chanced, till past eleven, when I got the paper for which I waited.[221] We lunched at Hawick, and concluded our pilgrimage at Abbotsford about nine at night, where the joyful barking of the dogs, with the sight of the kind familiar faces of our domestics, gave us welcome, and I enjoyed a sound repose on my own bed.  I remark that in this journey I have never once experienced depression of spirits, or the tremor cordis of which I have sometimes such unpleasant visits.  Dissipation, and a succession of trifling engagements, prevent the mind from throwing itself out in the manner calculated to exhaust the owner, and to entertain other people.  There is a lesson in this.

June 3, [Abbotsford].—­This was a very idle day.  I waked to walk about my beautiful young woods with old Tom and the dogs.  The sun shone bright, and the wind fanned my cheek as if it were a welcoming.  I did not do the least right thing, except packing a few books necessary for writing the continuation of the Tales.  In this merry mood I wandered as far as Huntly Burn, where I found the Miss Fergusons well and happy; then I sauntered back to Abbotsford, sitting on every bench by the way, and thus

    “It grew to dinner in conclusion.”

A good appetite made my simple meal relish better than the magnificent cheer which I have lately partaken of.  I smoked a cigar, slept away an hour, and read Mure of Auchendrane’s trial, and thus ended the day.  I cannot afford to spend many such, nor would they seem so pleasant.

June 4, [Edinburgh].—­The former part of this day was employed much as yesterday, but some packing was inevitable.  Will Laidlaw came to dinner, of which we partook at three o’clock.  Started at half-past four, and arrived at home, if we must call it so, at nine o’clock in the evening.  I employed my leisure in the chaise to peruse Mure of Auchendrane’s trial, out of which something might be coopered up for the public.[222] It is one of the wildest stories I ever read.  Something might surely be twisted out of it.